


A Pinch of Salt

by LelithSugar



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Drabble, Established Relationship, Feeding, Fluff, Hartwin, Honestly this is just too sweet for words, M/M, Romance, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-14
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 13:05:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13008396
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LelithSugar/pseuds/LelithSugar
Summary: Harry is too tired to cook, but too bloody stubborn not to. Eggsy performs an extremely heroic eleventh-hour rescue.





	A Pinch of Salt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FlareWarrior](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlareWarrior/gifts).



> A Kingsman Secret Santa Stocking Stuffer - blimey, has anyone tried saying that after a couple of mulled wines? - for an author I very much admire. FlareWarrior, I'm afraid I took your prompt in the spirit rather than the letter and as such have wandered off a bit but I do hope you enjoy it anyway. Blessings of the season to you and yours.

Harry is exhausted. Physically, emotionally, world endingly knackered and not too afraid to admit it now that a rest is within his grasp. It's been a long day at the end of a long week, the word _week_ arbitrarily assigned in his head to any stretch of work when in fact he hasn't had a break for something like twenty days.  
They were supposed to get rest time after Vienna but that hadn't happened, and then the combination of immovable physio appointments and meetings and drudgery have kept him to a never ending roster of late nights and earlier mornings that he's too proud to alter even if he could manage it logistically, which he doubts. The physio cannot be allowed to slip; asking for any concession on the active fieldwork he is given at this point would be madness; the rest all needs doing and he'll be damned if he'll admit defeat on something as minor as cooking dinner for himself and Eggsy, because it's those little things that make it all worth it in the first place. Otherwise he may as well just retire.

It's just a rough patch. He’ll be fine after a few days off. All he wants is to make dinner, eat and be in bed by ten. He doesn't have the energy for that to be an innuendo even in his own head: the most energetic fantasy he can muster is of settling down in fresh sheets and letting himself fall asleep, one hand resting on the solid warmth of Eggsy’s chest, perhaps one foot hooked with his under the duvet. Usually he'd call that bliss: tonight it will be something closer to mercy.

But first they really must eat. Gone are Harry's days of neglecting his body in some sort of martyrdom to his own exhaustion, because he feels the effects so much keener than he used to. He’s quick enough to pull Eggsy up on not taking care of himself, so he can't simply fall into bed now fully clothed no matter how desperately his body pulls at him to.

He's not sure why he bothers sipping some off the pasta sauce he's thrown together off the end of the spoon to taste it: he'll eat it regardless and Eggsy is not fussy, always heaps the praise on the most humble home cooked food like he should probably be doing with the seasoning.

Salt. That's all it needs, really, and Harry is strangely, peacefully satisfied with how the unassuming pile of remnants he started off with has become a more than passable meal. He smiles softly at the simple pleasure of being able to at least have Eggsy come home to something he's made himself, however old and wrung out he may feel; at the way he will close his eyes and moan as he eats, the ridiculous tart, like everything Harry puts in front of him is the best thing he's ever tasted.

Harry puts two pasta bowls on the counter - he hasn't warmed them, he's never known Eggsy take long enough about eating something for it to get cold - and finishes the sauce off with the shake of sea salt it's lacking.

Disaster unfolds in stop motion. He feels the salt gather momentum from the bottom of the tub to the top where he's tilting it, feels the weight come to the lid, the lid comes off and all five hundred grams of the salt pour in one inexorable damning flow into the saucepan.

Most of it dissolves on contact but in sheer delirious desperation Harry feels compelled to try to spoon the rest out and taste what's left in case it's somehow salvageable. It's saltier than seawater and makes him choke as soon as it touches his tongue, stinging at the back of his throat, and he's trying to deal with the eye watering coughing fit that ensues when the pasta boils over, covering the hob and splashing his arm.

It's the raw scald that shocks the tears out of him and then they won't stop. He's crying because it hurts; he’s crying because he feels ridiculous for allowing himself to get so tightly wound that the pain of a scald could even touch him; he's crying because he can't even get something so simple right; he's crying because he's crying over fucking pasta.

And then of course, the door rattles and Eggsy walks in.

“Babe! Fuck, what's the matter?” He drops everything and rushes to hold him, of course he does, he’s seen Harry cry precisely twice in the duration of their acquaintance and both times have been for grief . “Has something happened? What is it? I'm here.”

Harry composes himself with a pathetic, shuddering sigh into Eggsy’s shoulder, the choke of tears turning abruptly into laughter. “I… no, everything is fine. I - Oh for goodness' sake.”

So he tells him the whole story. Harry's laughing, even though his breath stutters. He expects Eggsy to laugh but he doesn't, just listens, green eyes wide and serious, brow tense. He nods occasionally, as if listening to a brief and weighing up his options, which Harry supposes may not be far off how he feels, with his ludicrous partner, a trained assassin, crying in their kitchen over a marinara sauce.

“I have got to go on a very, very important mission.” He's obviously not talking about anything serious, despite his face. “You have a shower, get into bed, and I will be right back.”

Eggsy’s very important mission takes him as far as their favourite Chinese and back in forty minutes. They do deliver but pick up is quicker, plus when they see it's Eggsy he always seems to get slipped extra spring rolls.

… and prawn crackers, and a tub of crispy seaweed, he finds when he unpacks. Christ, he must look sorry for himself.  
He carries the whole lot upstairs in its sweating plastic bag, plus a couple of plates, forks and spoons because fuck chopsticks, as if they've got the coordination after the week they've had.

Harry is, as instructed, sitting up in bed in shorts and a vest, all soft and sleepy and it would be lovely if he didn't look so drained. He looks adoringly at his bespoke delivery boy and Eggsy knows that exact feeling, when you don't realise how hungry you are until the smell hits you.

Once he's settled the foil cartons across plates, Eggsy strips to his boxers and clambers up onto the bed. Harry has made it as far as completely failing to twirl mixed chow mein onto a fork, so Eggsy takes the fork out of his hand and does it for him.

“I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself, Eggsy.”

“Just like you was capable of cooking?” Harry shoots him a hell of a look but softens at the humoured affection in his eyes. “Nah, I know you are. Just let me a bit, yeah?”

Harry opens his mouth, rolling his eyes as he allows Eggsy to feed him a forkful of noodles. Eggsy resists the urge for a _here comes the aeroplane_ because as tired as Harry may be, he'll probably end up wearing the chow mein. But Harry chews and swallows, smiles at him and lets Eggsy feed him another few mouthfuls.

“This is well awkward, hang on.” Eggsy kicks a leg up and swings it over Harry's head, shuffles back against the headboard and pulls Harry to rest back against his chest. “There we go.”

Settled, Eggsy pulls a plate within reach to put his own food on. Left hand stroking over Harry’s hair, smoothing it behind his ear, he holds a prawn cracker out with his right. “Char Sui me.”

Obediently, Harry scoops a forkful into the centre of the cracker and Eggsy swoops it into his mouth before it can drip on the bed. The second time, a sliver of bamboo shoot falls on Harry's collarbone and he eats it off, laughing. It's an awkward reach but a combination of spearing pork balls on the very end of his fork and pinching the edges of cartons between his fingers means Eggsy can feed himself and make sure Harry is eating and it's lovely, just being quiet and close when they’ve been working so hard.

Whilst Harry gives up on any sort of pretence and finishes a mixture of everything shovelled into one tub on a plate in his lap, Eggsy eats slowly, one handed, the other still playing in Harry's hair, trailing to rest on his collarbone.

“Babe, can you pass me the -”

Harry is asleep.

Eggsy sighs. It's adorable as all fucking get out now, but he can't reach the egg fried rice and the cramp is going to be murder.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed!
> 
> I am always grateful to receive feedback, it keeps me writing. 
> 
> Should you require a Britpicker or just want to prod me in general you can do so on tumblr: randomactsofviolence . I am always open to prompts!


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